The Scar
AN: This story takes place during the battle
between Squall and Seifer during the beginning sequence of Final Fantasy VIII,
and is told from Squall's viewpoint. I
don't own Seifer, Squall, or their gunblades (damn). I don't own Final Fantasy VIII or Squaresoft (damn). Come to
think of it, I don't own much. So don't
sue me, cause you won't get shit.
We both stand in
the practice ground. The sky is gray
and thunder sounds in the distance.
Seifer stands on the other side, gunblade raised, smirk in place. I raise my gunblade in answer, and we
charge.
Our initial
slashes at each other collide, and sparks leap from our blades. Seifer steps back and swings again. I block and slash at him in retaliation. He whirls and dodges, and my killing blow
connects with nothing. The force of the
swing causes me to stumble a little, but I quickly regain my balance, and not a
moment too soon. He is upon me again,
slashing. I deflect it with my blade,
but it was sloppy and causes us both to rebound to opposite ends of the
practice ground.
Instead of
laughing at me, like he is usually apt to do, he merely smirks and extends his
hand, blade arm cocked behind him. He
beckons me wordlessly, with his hand. I
answer his call and charge. I raise my
blade in preparation for a killing blow, and then I saw it. Energy swirling and collecting around his
hand. I stop in my tracks, and take the
split second I have left to shield myself from the fire spell as best I can.
He fires. I am lucky.
It hits my blade with a resounding clang and impossible force that sends
me to the ground. The blinding flash of
the spell hitting my blade has temporarily blinded me, and the smoke is not
helping things at all. I shake my head
from side to side trying desperately to clear my vision. I succeed, and look up to see him smirking, with his blade raised. He has a malicious glint in his eye.
SHIT! The next thing I know is burning pain coming
from a gash somewhere on my face, where exactly I cannot be certain. I see my blood on the ground, and rage fills
me.
I will hurt him.
I get to my
feet, and grip my blade.
I will hurt
him.
I set my feet
apart and charge, my cry drowning out the thunder, which has gotten closer as
we dueled.
I will hurt
him.
I swing my blade
upward, sparks flying from the ground as the tip drags forcefully against the
ground.
I will.
